


But You Pull Me In

by hawberries



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 21:00:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawberries/pseuds/hawberries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basorexia: an overwhelming desire to kiss.<br/>Strikhedonia: the pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But You Pull Me In

**Author's Note:**

> prompt from Elviella on tumblr for [this meme](http://sapphicdalliances.tumblr.com/post/62154651976). you can leave your own, if you like!

Eponine stays back to go over notes with Combeferre at the close of their Tuesday meeting; between his quiet, lightning-quick analysis and her sharp intuition, they make for an efficient team. When Combeferre switches from green tea to black, though, they have to acknowledge it’s time to call it a night.

“Let me walk you home,” he offers as he stacks his notes neatly into a folder.  
She raises an eyebrow. “You’d be more likely to get into trouble than I am, on my street.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” says Combeferre sincerely, “but if you would acquiesce to being my protector for an evening, I would be delighted for more of your company. I do come with an umbrella,” he adds, with a glance to the dark windows of the Musain.

As if to accentuate his point, they step outside to the low drumroll of thunder in the distance. She grins at him and accepts.

Eponine rooms with Grantaire in a tiny but blessedly structurally-sound apartment several streets away from the Musain, but the minutes slip past them as they walk; Combeferre is an attentive listener and holds his end of the conversation with ease. Eponine supposes that he seems so quiet next to the blazing suns of leadership and extroversion that are Enjolras and Courfeyrac that it’s easy to overlook his dry wit and gentle authority. She decides to make a point to do that less.

He chuckles unreservedly at a quip she offers on Enjolras’s haircut, and dimples form on his cheeks. His face suddenly seems very far away; she has to tilt her head to see his eyes, her head level with his shoulders.

Eponine considers taking him by the collar and pulling him down, closing all the miles and miles of vertical space between them until they’re breathing the same air, kissing him until he’s on his knees and she can reach him without craning. Lately, she spends most of the time that she shares with Combeferre wanting to kiss him (and do a variety of other things to him, some of them suitably dirty and others mortifyingly twee, such as holding his hand or burying her fingers in the tight curls of his closely-cropped hair and resting her forehead on his shoulder), but the desire spikes sharply as she watches him. His teeth are very white in his face. She wants to lick them.

Something icy-cold and conveniently timed strikes her on the nose, and Eponine has never been so simultaneously thankful for and resentful of the rain.

They jog the last block, huddled together under the practical grey umbrella Combeferre brought. At one point, she splashes the hem of his trouser leg, and he retaliates by tilting the umbrella so it drips on her elbow. They’re slightly winded but flushed and laughing by the time they’ve raced up the three flights of stairs to her apartment.

“Well, here I am,” she declares, digging her keys out of her coat pockets. “Thanks for getting me home still at least seventy per cent dry.”

“I see; you’re only using me for my umbrella,” says Combeferre teasingly. His glasses are dotted with rain, and tiny silvery drops cling to his hair, suspended in the dense curls. Eponine feels very warm under her coat, and spins around to focus on the keyhole with perhaps more haste than strictly required.

“Don’t worry, you have a lovely personality too,” she shoots back without looking. She finally hears the tumblers turn in the door, and twists the jamb open with a sigh of relief. She glances back; Combeferre hasn’t spoken.

“Would you like to come in?” she blurts out before she can convince herself that that kind of temptation is a bad idea. It’s only polite—but Combeferre is shaking his head, looking honestly regretful.

“No,” he sighs, “I should—things to be done, roommates to supervise, you know how it is.”

“Life is hard when you’re platonically married to the future leader of the free world,” she agrees, with theatrical melancholy, and turns to step past the threshold.

“Eponine,” says Combeferre suddenly. Eponine looks back at him; he looks nervous, which is unusual and slightly concerning. He presses his lips together for a moment, looking indecisive, then sighs and says, “thank you for tonight—helping me with the notes, and allowing me to accompany you to your door. I hope you have a good evening.”

“I—” somehow, that doesn’t seem like it was what he was originally planning to say, but Eponine lets it go. “Yeah, I was happy to help, and the same to you.”

They pause to smile awkwardly at each other for a moment more, then Combeferre turns away to eave, and Eponine steps inside her house and closes the door.

As she suspected, Grantaire isn’t home yet; she’ll give him until nine before she starts getting pissed. Eponine leans against the door, drops her bag, and sighs. Her heartbeat has not slowed; she tries to pretend it’s just a leftover symptom from the sprint up the stairs, but the image of Combeferre outlined against a shadowy sky, all smiles and dimples and rain-flecked glasses, has still not left her mind.

She’s just preparing to start feeling angry about how tender her emotions have become—she’s _done_ with that, she’s been over this, how many fucking times—when there is a hammering at the door. She leaps back in surprise.

It’s Combeferre again, eyes wide and chest heaving. He stares down at her. She stares up at him. Neither of them move.

“Courfeyrac once told me I would need a five-stage plan to ask someone out,” he blurts all of a sudden, and Eponine’s heart stops in her chest. The rest of her immediately feels warm all over, and she feels a grin tugging at her lips.

“Did he,” she says.

Combeferre nods jerkily. “Yeah, with preemptive research and blueprints and everything. But I don’t have one of those. I—” he takes a breath. “I don’t think I need one. I don’t need a blueprint to know you’re incredible,” he says, and immediately looks embarrassed to have said such a thing, but plows on. “I—Eponine. I value our current friendship and would be more than content to continue it forever. But I would be immensely honoured if you would consider going on a date with me.”

Eponine suspects that she’s grinning too widely to kiss anyone right now, but she catches his collar anyway, and pulls him down for miles and miles like she’s wanted to all day, and finally closes all the distance between them.

“Yeah,” she breaths against Combeferre’s lips. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- title is from 'fearless' by taylor swift (i'm not usually this way but/you pull me in and i'm a little more brave) which might accidentally have become my eponine/combeferre theme song (sung from combeferre's perspective). oops?


End file.
